


Can I Get You a Ladder So You Can Get Off My Back?

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, Cunnilingus, Dominant Solas Trash Club, F/M, Fisting, Impregnation, Oral Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 10:30:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2769734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lavellan falls while climbing down a ladder, and Solas catches her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Those Fucking Ladders

**Author's Note:**

> Based on DA!kmeme prompt 10859.html?thread=45848939#t45848939, neatened up and reposted.

Nerys wasn’t superstitious. She paid lip service to the creators and invoked their names in colourful swears when the mood took her, but never _truly_ believed. Not in the stone statues that her clan so dearly devoted themselves to, nor any of the other halla shit that Hahren Sisphael insisted on shoving down her throat.

   “Blood will be spilt not a turn of the moon hence when the halla graze against the sun’s path,” Sisphael had told her once. What did that even _mean?_ No, what Nerys _did_ believe in, was what she could see. What she currently saw was terrifyingly, unfathomably, _monstrous_.

  The most grotesque part about it, was that, Falon’din guide her, she needed to get _closer_. Her lip quivered in anticipation, or anxiety, as shivers wracked her body. The chill in her bones was not due to a mountain top the temperature of Sylaise’s cold hearth, but the foreboding.

   It was not the little jolt of shock that one received when snuck up upon whilst relieving oneself in the bushes, it was deeper. It was primitive, more primal. Nerys’ knees trembled as she gazed upon it even from her current distance, simultaneously daunted and enraptured by its sheer magnitude. Even Mythal, the supposed “great protector” of her people, would have shit her smallclothes in terror. 

   “We must move quickly!” her shem companion not-so-kindly reminded her. Nerys agreed wholeheartedly with the sentiment, but not the direction. She would rather be leagues away by now, racing for the roots of the mountain. She would have been, had her curious eleven companion not insisted that she, who had yet to complete her rites of passage to become a full-blooded hunter, would be the _key_ to their _salvation!_

   She had, of course, immediately opened her mouth to rebuke his assertion, but his indelible, intoxicating gaze had stolen her tongue. She felt those eyes on her now as she traversed her way down the steep mountain path, with him following behind. The tips of her ears, already tinged pink from the harsh winds whipping past her, flushed even further. Dirthamen laugh at her if the grungy apostate wasn’t watching the sway of her hips with each step.

   Nerys made an effort to exaggerate their swing before coming to a halt in front of another ladder. Why had she decided that it would be a better idea to take a winding, wintry, path through the mountain? It was pitiful in how petty it was that she had chosen such a risky route just to spite the Seeker who had handled her roughly. A direct approach would have been much more tactically sound.

   “I swear before Elgar’nan, that if I see one more ladder, I will bring this mountain down,” Nerys muttered morosely. Neither Cassandra nor Varric thought much of her invective, carefully descending down the rickety wooden frame. Her childish pout that accompanied drew a gentle chuckle from Solas. Nerys turned her gaze to him warily, readying a razor-sharp retort, but a small curl at the corner of his mouth disarmed her.

   “Do not fear, da’len. I will catch you.”

   There was no mocking sneer, just a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Once again rendered speechless, she gave a curt nod. With a flourish, Nerys indicated for him to descend the ladder before her. Thankfully, the Creators, or the Maker, or the Paragons, or whatever powers that be, did not see fit to embarrass Nerys further by forcing her to accept the offer for assistance as she descended the ladder. 

   Her luck did not hold for the next, however. She would later vehemently argue that she had slipped on a particularly icy rung, that there was a sudden blasting gale, or that she was distracted by some glib quip from the beardless stone-child. That there was _some_ reason why she found herself descending down the ladder faster than she had intended. But in the moment, she found that she did not need an excuse to enjoy the warm, as he caught her squarely in his arms.

   Nerys had thought the comment to be made in jest, merely an attempt to mollify her, but she realised that she had underestimated his lithe frame. His loose clothing disguised his strength well. He was not wiry, but _lean_. His body held a power that she had not seen among any of her kind before, a quiet superiority. Intimidating, certainly, but also _arousing._

   She was pressed against the taut planes of his chest, held fast and cradled much like a babe in arms. There were tendrils of warmth radiating through his flimsy tunic and trickle into her core, the heat pooling in her belly. Nerys squirmed sightly in his arms as she felt a moistness seep into her smalls. She blushed out of embarrassment, the claret restoring her wind-beaten pallor. 

   She looked up to see a darkened expression on his face, nostrils flaring wildly and eyes half-lidded. Her own widened slightly in surprise, and a breathless mewl escaped, carried away on the wind. Nerys felt, rather than heard, his response. A deep growl, low in his throat, reverberating through her.

   “Stop terrifying the poor kid and put her down.”

  The suddenness of the Varric’s interruption surprised both elves, and Nerys was unceremoniously dropped on her feet. An indignant squawk was drawn from her throat. This drew a sardonic chortle from the elder. Exasperated, and embarrassed further, Nerys jabbed him sharply in the ribs with her elbow.

  “I am glad that you find this so amusing, hahren,” Nerys petulantly bemoaned.

  “There is no time for this!” Cassandra interjected before turning away and continuing down the steep incline at a rapid pace. Varric winked at the elves before turning to follow. Nerys too began to step forward, but she stumbled slightly when she felt a hand brush over her hip, too low for propriety’s sake. Righting herself, and drawing herself to her full height, she turned to glare at her remaining companion. 

  Leaning in so that his breath tickled her ear, he whispered; “Ir abelas, da’len. I did not mean to offend.” He gently nuzzled the shell of her ear with his nose, his warm breath caressing her lobe, for a few heartbeats, then withdrew. Her breath hitched, and she took a few rapid, stuttering pants before she could bring her breathing back under control. By then, he was a number of strides ahead.

  Nerys pointedly ignored all of the petrified figures around her in lieu of focusing on the view in front of her. They were paralysed in pain, encased in their agony for eternity, but disregarded. Surely Ghilan’nain had never before made a quarry as perfect as the one that Nerys now followed. The distraction was almost great enough for her to forget the igneous currents of anguish in her arm as she neared closer to the great, gaping wound in the sky.

  It had started as a mild tingle in her fingers, like when she woke up after sleeping on her arm wrong, then it had been like the time when her cousin Samehl had dared her to touch an ember from their campfire, the heat enveloping her palm. It had steadily, languorously, _torturously_ climbed up her arm. First to her elbow, until she could no longer straighten her arm. Then to her shoulder, so she could not lift it. Yet she had to get _closer,_ still.

  “Dread Wolf take me,” she cursed under her breath.

  She was sullenly staring at her feet as she trudged further onwards, closer to the breach, closer to what could not be anything but her end. She did not notice that a small growl came from her elven companion, or that his stride abruptly faltered. She only noticed that he was stationary when she walked directly into his back.

  The two stumbled in synchronisation, and Nerys felt the familiar pull towards the earth beneath her feet as she fell. Too fast to see how it happened, she felt the older elf’s arms around her waist and found herself straddling his lap instead of colliding with the ground. She let out a small, breathy giggle, like it was she who had been winded upon slamming into the rocky outcrop. It caught in her throat as she felt two large, searing hands, fall on the swell of her hips.

  Nerys placed one hand on either side of his shoulders and rolled her hips in her movement to get up, but the hands on her sides firmly held her in place. The net result of the endeavour being that she shifted forwards on his lap a few inches. She attempted the same movement again, this time simply grinding their cores together. The angle was wrong and it gave her no sensation, but she worried her lower lip between her teeth as she did it just _so_ …

  “Da’len,” he grunted. Solas tightened his hold upon her hips and dug his fingers into her hard deep enough to bruise. A small crease furrowed his brow, and Nerys wanted nothing more than to lean down and kiss it. The moment was lost due to Varric’s once more timely intervention.

  “Why don’t we leave the celebrating until there’s something to celebrate about?”

  As if a spell was broken, the two hastily muttered and mumbled mutual apologies. They extricated themselves and ensured that they were separated by the others before continuing on their journey. It was not much farther to go, a few more paces at most until the entrance to the decrepit temple. With every step closer, her anxiety grew.

  The song that was skittering along her skin when Nerys encountered the smaller rifts previously was now approaching a grand crescendo. It was resonating within her _bones_. She found it frightening and fatiguing in turns. Chilling, _enervating_ , and the sense of foreboding that she carried during her trek to the temple increased.

  Nerys found herself repulsed from the central chamber of the remains of the temple by a magnetism. Not simply a want but a _need_ , eclipsing all other desires. The pains along her arm a mere throb like she had been holding her bow for too long. The dull ache between her legs lessened into naught, she just needed to _run away_. 

  She did not care whether the Creators did or did not exist. She did not care that she was barely yet an adult. She did not care that she had not undergone her rites of passage. She did not care  that her face was still unmarked. 

  There was no-one else in the room, they were all obscured by a seeping, creeping, emerald mist. Nerys spoke to someone, but not a person, a viridian-tinged shade, a shadow of a person. She did not pay attention to the substance of the discourse. She was only aware of the tear in the veil. She was begging, pleading, _yearning_ , to escape from it.

  But Nerys had to get _closer_. She had to _touch_ it. She had to reach into it, wrench it open. She felt as though it was wrenching a part of herself along with it. 

  She doubled over, cowering in pain. It was _excruciating!_ She was burning alive, bursting aflame from the inside. It was an immolation, _conflagration_ of her soul, her spirit, her very _essence._

  Nerys shook off her stupor when she heard the sounds of fighting. There was the “poot” of a nocked arrow being unleashed, the sharp clang of metal clashing against armour the fizzle of magical energy. She too fought, mechanically nocking and unleashing her own arrows, haphazardly aiming, her movements merely muscle memory.

  The edges of her senses were fuzzy, softened. Her memory, too. She would not remember the euphoric torrent of victory. Upon waking, all that she would remember was reaching into the rift, the torment of closing it.


	2. Faded Elven Glory

Clouds the colour of a sunset shimmered against an off-white sky. Nerys felt herself staring up at them, attempting to ascertain their secrets. She felt her brow furrow in concentration, _consternation_ , and reached up with her hand to smooth the wrinkle that formed. She saw a single, solitary, dead, elfroot leaf begin to fall from the sky, fluttering and flitting in the wind as it descended. 

  The closer it got to her, the better she could see that it was not dead at all. The tip, tinged with green, brought the rest of the leaf to life as the hue spread. It landed, sides bowed slightly in, on the rolling waves of the red sea before her. Suddenly, she was in the small elfroot leaf boat upon the ocean of blood. 

  Or had she been there the entire time? _Time_. It was always such an abstract concept in the fade. It had no meaning beyond what one made of it.

  The mark on her hand flickered, thrumming with energy. It ached, and Nerys leaned over the side of her makeshift raft to submerge it in the thick, viscous liquid to soothe it. Instead, her hand touched a blade of grass. _Red_ grass.

  Nerys was stranded, stuck, in the infinite plains. By her feet in the boat were a set of oars, carved out of halla horns. Grabbing them, Nerys notched them in the grooves on the side of her boat, and began to row. The rolling waves that she had seen from up above were ripples caused by gusts of wind now at her back, pushing her on. 

  The wind picked up behind her, a subtle shift at first. Then harder, _stronger_ , picking up speed, _faster_ , and swirling, _spinning_ around her. She was in the eye of the vortex, the tempest, the _storm_. Carried on the winds were whispers, slivers of secrets, just for her.

  No, that _was_ her.

  “Dread Wolf take me,” was the chorus, the _cacophony_.

  Scant streaks of pale moonlight shone through gaps in the forest canopy above, bathing her in it.       

  She was dressing a hare that she had caught, but her knife had slipped and cut her thumb.

  “Dread Wolf take me!” she muttered.

  “Be wary of your wishes, da’len,” came a voice. Not just _any_ voice. She _knew_ that voice.

  She was resigned to sitting in the aravel, as punishment for one of her plethora of childish pranks. Sitting in the dark, the dank, _alone_.

  “Dread Wolf take me!”

  “Is that what you desire, da’len?” came the same, soft cadence, but it did not carry the same lilt of amusement, replaced instead with hunger.

  Still dark, still dank. But now a pale glow illuminated her, the pale wash of moonlight. Her hands were bound, locked in wooden stocks. She was chained, in pain. 

  Where was she? What was happening?

  “Dread Wolf take me!”

  She was walking towards a great, gaping, tear in the sky. It was shivering, shimmering. Not green, the colours of an inverted sunset. There was a warmth in her belly, her core, and an ache between her legs.

  “Ma nuvenin, da’len,” was the _growl._

 

* * *

 

 

Nerys rested against a mossy tree trunk that had fortuitously fallen by the bank of the lake. An arm curled around her waist, drawing lazy circles on her hip, the movements softly tickling her bare back. All around, the air was alive with the music of creatures of the night: the hum of cicadas provided the harmony, the chirping of crickets the melody; occasionally punctuated by an owl’s hoot or a wolf’s howl.

  Subtle winds carrying an exotic bouquet of scents tickled her bare skin. It formed gooseflesh and pebbled the little rosy buds upon her breasts. She released a gentle moan, no more than a sigh, that was lost as it wafted up into the heavens. Nerys distractedly threaded her fingers through those of a hand casually caressing her thigh.

  A hot mouth pressed against the crook of her neck, suckling. A greedy tongue laved and left a trail of wet, searing heat along her wind-cooled flesh. The warmth trickled through her body, awakening her senses, and awakening something more primal, more carnal within her very core. It was an anticipation, a tingle of excitement.

  “It’s so peaceful, so serene.”

  Smooth, velvety lips twisted in mirth against her shoulder, before spreading wide to permit a playful nip at her flesh. A soothing flick of the tongue followed, and Nerys shivered as the sudden pain was muted. The vibrations of a light chuckle against her skin ran in a jolt down her spine. At the same time a calloused hand ran up her thigh, high enough to feel the heat radiating from her sex.

  Kisses trailed up her neck and jaw, and a gentle nibble of her earlobe elicited an enthusiastic moan.

  “For now, da’len. I shall enjoy drawing every stuttered gasp from your lips,” he whispered into her ear. 

  To accentuate the point, the hand that had been resting on her hip moved to roughly palm her breast. He squeezed firmly, before clever fingers danced on her skin. Seeking, _searching_ for the little rosy bud that adorned her bosom. Nerys’ breath hitched and she bit the inside of her cheek to suppress a moan.  
  Nerys was now sitting atop the log, knees together and hands neatly resting above. Solas was sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of her. The hard evidence of his desire was obvious. Nerys shyly averted her gaze, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as well as desire. A knot had formed in her belly, heavy, but intangible as of yet. 

  “I shall enjoy hearing my name on your lips, whispered like a wanton prayer.”  

Gently, with one of his hands on either knee, Solas spread her legs. Her sex, pink and glistening, greeted him. Nerys saw his expression turn from reverent to predatory and tried to close her legs, but Solas held them open. She then tried to cover herself with her hands, but Solas leaned in and swatted them away with his nose.

 “Please, Solas,” she begged, breathlessly.

  He inhaled deeply, the heady musk of her arousal only serving to increase his. He remained there, close, but not touching, for what seemed to be a torturously long while. The tension in her belly became heavier, more solid. Her blood began to boil, inflaming her veins.

  “I shall enjoy hearing you begging me, pleading with me, to give you the release that you seek.”

   His breath tickled the sensitive flesh and her hips bucked. The tip of Solas’ nose barely brushed the bundle of nerves at the apex of her sex, and the sensation sent a spark of lightning to the coil of tension forming in her core. It was nice, but it wasn’t enough. She needed more.

  “ _Please!_ ” 

  Solas dragged his nails into her skin as he moved his hands from her knees to her hips, and gripped them tight. After what felt like an _age_ , Solas pressed his tongue to her sex. With slow, controlled motions, he stroked the lips, by now slick with her juices. Lackadaisically licking and laving, careful to avoid the sensitive button.

  He suckled and kissed. He grazed the flesh of her lips with his teeth and tenderly nibbled. The heat of his face, the gentle caress of his breath right _there_ was maddening! When Solas _finally_ brushed her swollen nub with his tongue, Nerys squealed her lover’s name sharply.

  “I shall enjoy hearing you scream my name as I take you over the precipice of rapture.” 

 He withdrew to speak, but did not return. Instead, he lazily drew circles around her wet entrance with his middle and ring fingers. He gathered the slick on the pads of his fingers, before briefly inserting them into her wet heat. He crooked them, just so, and Nerys bucked her hips wildly as a loud moan was torn from her throat.

  She was so close, it was infuriating. Her whole body was aflame with tension, awash with sensation. She was in the penumbra of the precipice, and she was ready to fall. But Solas was not willing to take her over just yet. 

  He pulled his fingers from her and brought them to his lips. He made a great show of licking her juices from them, exaggerating the guilty squelching just to taunt Nerys. His lips, moist and swollen, curved into an arrogant smirk that made her hiss in annoyance. Her lips also curved, but downwards, into an anguished scowl. 

  The ecstasy that she was searching for seemed to be more elusive than any of Ghilan’nain’s creations! 

  “Dread Wolf take me!”

  She was then bent over the mossy log, the soft padding moulding to her form. She was grateful for the extra support because there was a body pressing down on hers, hot and heavy. His skin was searing against hers, the sweat between them cool by comparison. Solas leaned his head down by hers, and growled.

  “Then I shall take you like the Dread Wolf, da’len. Would you enjoy that?”

  Nerys could only mewl her assent, her breath constricted by his weight upon her back.

  “You have invoked the Dread Wolf’s wrath. It is a great and terrible thing, da'len.”

  Solas reached down again with his thumb, and dragged it around the entrance to her sex, slicking it. Readjusting himself for a better angle, he then moved his hand to her other entrance. He circled the tight ring of muscle with his thumb, spreading her juices. Gently, he massaged.

  Nerys mewled in impatience, and bucked her hips upwards, hoping to get _anything_ more, because what he was currently offering was not enough! Even _Andruil_ , the great Huntress, would not be able to hunt for the quarry that Nerys now sought!

  “Hush, da’len. I will give you what you seek.”

  “Please,” she sobbed, the force wracking her whole body. Their sweat-slicked bodies slid against each other, and Solas’ position slipped slightly. His thumb entered her and she moaned. He moved it inside her, playing with and teasing her entrance. He once again reached into the recesses of her wet heat with his middle and ring fingers.

  He thrust simultaneously with his thumb and fingers, and could feel her inner walls tightening around him with the coil of tension in her belly. He crooked the fingers that were deep in her sex, and Nerys shuddered.

  “Do you enjoy that, da’len? Having both of your hot little holes fingered at once?”

  “Y-yes,” Nerys gasped out. She began to whimper and whine as Solas removed his fingers from her slick, but stopped when he inserted them into her other entrance. Once again, he probed and stretched, preparing her. With his other hand, he reached down to guide his member along her sex. 

  When Solas was sufficiently satisfied at how lubricated with her slick it was, he gave his organ a few swift pumps and removed his fingers from her so that he could nestle the head by her entrance. Slowly, he pushed forward, waiting for the resistance from her body to dissipate and for her to relax enough to accommodate him. He had prepared her well, and did not have to wait long before he could snap his hips back and forth in fluid thrusts. 

  The sensation was titillating, tantalising. She was almost _there_ , she could feel all the muscles in her body tighten, not just her inner walls. Her toes twitched, and her fingers clenched into fists.

  “Harrellan,” she pleaded. “Please, no more teasing. _Enough_.”

  “Ma nuevenin, da’len. Wake up.”

 


	3. And the Tale Grew in the Telling

Nerys lurched forward with a visceral shriek. It was an anguished lament, mournful and resentful. She had been _so close_. Her release had danced just in front of her, taunting her, just out of arm’s reach, and then dastardly dashed away.

  Resigned, Nerys leaned back into her surprisingly fluffy pillow, and snaked her hand under the covers and into her smalls. By Elgar’nan, she was going to finish this. 

  “It is good to see that you have awoken, emm’asha.”

  Nerys yelped in surprise, and turned to look in the direction of whomever was intruding upon such a private, personal act. It was Solas, sitting by the hearth. He had a coy quirk of a smirk, and a book was resting on his lap, open. She curled inwards, trying to cower beneath her coverings from his inscrutable gaze.

  “Why do you hide, ma sa’lath?” 

  Sylaise would reprimand him on his manners because was he never taught that it was _rude_ to stare? Nerys murmured something unintelligible about not realising that she was not alone. He chuckled, she pouted petulantly, and tried to sneak her hand out of her smallclothes. Having never trained in the more subtle roguish arts, she failed, and Solas’ eyes were instantly drawn to the minute movement.

  “We have unfinished business.”

  Nerys barely contained a snort. Dirthamen knows that was an _understatement_. Instead, she casually lifted a brow in inquisition. Solas took it as a challenge, gently closing the book and placing it on the small table beside him. 

  He stood and strode, _stalked_ to where she lay in bed. She felt vulnerable, exposed, even under the thick covers.

  “Do you trust me, emma lath?” 

  His inflection was quiet, concerned. His hips were right beside her face, his member proudly pressing against his leggings. She was distracted by its proximity, its _profoundness_. June herself would have been appreciative of the perfection of its design, even obscured by cloth as it was.

  Nerys sucked in a sharp breath: inhaling the sharp, acrid tang of smoke from the fire; the crisp, clean scent of fresh snowfall; and the musky, earthy scent that was wholly Solas. The potent combination was exhilarating, electrifying. Any last vestiges of sleep still clinging to her consciousness evaporated, and she was entirely in this moment.

  The room was too hot, or was that just _her?_ The heat was stifling, and she was acutely aware of the sweat dripping down her brow. Her heart was pounding so hard that she was afraid it would burst out of her chest and that she would die unsatisfied. The sheer agony of anticipation was all that was keeping her from succumbing.

  She nodded her affirmation, and seemingly satisfied, Solas too nodded. He began to skilfully unbuckle his belt and leaned down to lift her head from the pillow it rested on, sliding his belt underneath her neck. He wrapped it around once, twice, before threading the buckle prong through the first notch. Discontent, he cinched the belt once more to the second notch and leaned back.

  His eyes searched hers, looking for any sign of hesitation, trepidation. Nerys let out a few shaking, rasping breaths, her lungs filling with anxiety as well as cold mountain air. She wanted to reach up to her makeshift collar, wedge her fingers between her flesh and the leather to find some liberty, wanted to tear it off, but her arms were heavy and leaden. With each successive breath it became easier, and the arhythmic stutters settled.

  As Nerys relaxed and the features on her face shifted into begrudging approval, Solas’ expression darkened. Her mouth opened slightly, and she absently licked her lips. Steely blue eyes now a stormy gray, lids heavy and half closed, snapped to the movement. He roughly ripped the coverlet off of Nerys’ limp form and threw it across the room.

  He placed one knee on the edge of the small cot and climbed over her, sultry and sensuous. Now straddling her lap, crushing her arms against her body, he licked his own lips before pressing them against hers. Mythal save her from being set aflame, Nerys had thought she was hot _before_. Her every nerve sang to her, burning, the blood in her veins igneous. 

  Her body was engulfed by sensation, a study in opposites. The searing heat of him astride her, emanating from his body even through clothes, was misery. His magically chilled hands skimming along her skin underneath her tunic, was rapture. The pace of his kiss as he unhurriedly moved his lips against hers was excruciating. 

  The way that he nipped her lip sharply and then laved it with his tongue, the way that he suckled the very same spot that he had bitten hard enough to draw blood, was ecstasy. She moaned into his mouth as a glacial thumb flicked over her nipple, where it was greedily swallowed. Nerys felt her inhibitions ebb away as the damp seeped into her smalls. As frosty fingers trailed southwards, she pleaded breathlessly against his lips. 

  “Please, Solas, hahren, harellan, _please_.”

  “Not yet, emma vhenan.”

  Solas removed his lips from her own to trail kisses along her jawbone, down to the crook of her neck. He nuzzled her with his nose, inhaling deeply, and growled. Low and possessive, adjacent to her sensitive ear.

  “I would first ask you a question,” he murmured.

  “A-anything. Just please, take me, harrellan.”

  “You ask me to take you, not knowing what it truly means. I would take you as a mate, da’vhenan.”

  Frozen fingertips stroked the slick lips of her sex, an unspoken promise. The temperature disparity sent a jolt of electricity through her, much the same as if he had conjured lightning at his fingertips in place of ice. Her inner muscles clenched in response, tension in her belly tightening almost unbearably.

  “I would mark you.”

  He gently nipped her shoulder, enough to make her mewl and to prove his point. The hand not teasing her wet heat moved to her hip. He squeezed it firmly, digging keen nails into the flesh. 

  “I would claim you as my own. As my seed spilled inside you, you would be mine. Is this what you desire?”

  “Oh by the Creators, the Maker, the Paragons, by the blasted _Void_ , please! Yes, yes, _yes!_ ”

  “Very well.”

  Nimble hands unlaced her leggings, brushing against her far more than necessary. Where each stroke fell, her skin tickled, tingled, tension mounting in her core even still. She was on the cusp of completion, she could taste on her tongue, hear her voice scream her lover’s name as he desired. Solas had to remove himself from the cot in order to fully remove her them, and Nerys’ arms were thereby freed from their cage. 

  She gripped the hem of her tunic, and with some wriggling and writhing due to the makeshift-collar imposed movement impediment, managed to divest herself of the offending garment. The material was coarse, prickling her as she dragged it over herself. Upon observing her movements, Solas understood, and placed his jawbone necklace on the table beside the bed, before shucking his own tunic and leggings. Both elves were now blissfully, embarrassingly, bare. 

  Nerys’ cheeks and ears flushed under her lover’s intense scrutiny, and she turned her head to look at the wall.

  “Why do you hide, ma sa’lath?” He repeated his earlier question. “Can you not see how I desire you?”

  It was painfully obvious, the way that his aching member jutted out. The head was purple with want, a little pearl of liquid forming on the tip. Nerys couldn’t help but turn her head, and Solas unabashedly met her gaze. Casually taking his hand to his throbbing organ, he spread the little bead of moisture over the swollen tip, and slowly, exaggeratedly began pumping himself. 

  Nerys’ eyes were captivated by the alluring ripple of the muscles in his arm. The undulation of his midsection as he thrust into his hand was equally entrancing. She rolled over from her back to her side, and propped herself up on an elbow so she could reach over to brush the dark trail of hair that led southwards. Upon her featherlight touch, he growled, deep and feral. 

  Startled, Nerys began to retract her hand, but the hand not pleasuring himself darted out and restrained her wrist. He guided her hand back to his body, and nodded curtly. The belt around her neck restricted her breathing further in this new position, but the sight before her was so seductively inviting that she could not resist. As she struggled to breathe, her vision became hazier, and the warm hues of the cabin faded away until all that her focus was drawn by was her lover.

  Her hand stroked in small circles, exploring, tugging the little trail of hair that so starkly contrasted against his pale skin. Solas hummed appreciatively, and the movements of his hand stilled as he stood, just enjoying the feeling.

When the position became too much for Nerys, she reclined onto the bed, although grudgingly. Almost in synchronisation, Solas too moved forward towards the bed to follow her movements. 

  Subconsciously, Nerys spread her legs to provide a space for him to nestle between.

  “Is this truly what you desire, ma vhenan? I can not trust myself to stop, should we continue.”

  She nodded her response emphatically, because how had he not gotten the hint already? The teasing in the fade, and in this rustic little cabin in the mountains, had her yearning, craving for release. The knot of tension in her body was a tightly coiled spring, and she was ready to spring forward and take _him_ if he didn’t just fuck her already!

  As if sensing her ire from the tension in her body, he insouciantly rested the head of his engorged organ by the entrance to her sex. She was so slick with juices that he almost slipped in.

  “Once more, vhenan’ara. Is this what you desire?”

  She ached with desire, her entire being engulfed by it. Her skin, her bones, her very core coveting climax. She wrapped her legs around his waist, and with all that she could muster, pulled him towards her as she bucked her hips. Finally, after the agonising anticipation, he hilted home.

  She was satisfied at her small victory, but far from satiated. He filled her, but had not completed her. Still, he tormented her, taunted her, with how he did not roll his hips and thrust into her. Nerys was so infuriated, so incensed, that she could just punch the smug smile right off of his face.

  She tried rolling her own hips, bucking against him, to try and encourage movement, but his hands held her firmly down. He tapped his fingers as he dragged them up her sides to her breasts, and gave a subtle roll of his hips as he pinched and rolled the little rosy pebbles between his forefinger and thumb. Nerys shuddered and panted, her propinquity to release just that much closer. Solas leaned down to sigh titillating secrets in her ear, whispers in a carnal language.

  “I will spend myself in you, in your tight, little cunt. You will take it like the debauched Dalish you are.”

  A roll of his hips.

  “You will take my seed, after I use and abuse you.”

  Another. Then, another. A vexingly sluggish rhythm began to form, smooth and fluid. Each thrust ponderous even as he plundered her core.

  His words rushed past her ear, carried on hot breath, and Nerys vaguely absorbed them. Her hands scrabbled, scrambled for purchase on his sweat-slicked body, eventually finding contact with his ears. She kneaded and rubbed, cheekily clenching her inner walls with each ministration . The pattern of the snap of his hips stumbled each time, and then stopped abruptly. 

  “You enjoy using your hands, emma lath? Perhaps I shall tie them up.”

  Solas pulled out of her warmth, a string of juices still connecting them. He reached over to the nightstand where he had placed his jawbone necklace, and Creators help her, he did. The knots he made from the thin cord were flimsy, but through a feat of ingenuity and no small amount of effort, he managed to tie her hands together to the headboard. It was intimidating the way that she was being dominated, but it only made the ache between her legs more profound.

  She mewled in impatience as he still had not sheathed himself again within her.

  “You miss my cock? Very well, I shall give it to you.”

  Her eyes glimmered with excitement as she heard his words, even through the thick fog of lust filling her ears. But it was quickly muted as instead of hilting himself within the recesses of her sex, he crawled up her body, and placed himself into her mouth. Nerys could taste herself on him, salty and slightly bitter, but not unpleasant. Between the gag of his organ thrusting down her throat, and the belt-collar around her neck, she could not breathe at all. 

  Her vision was darkening, losing sight around the edges just slightly. Anxiety was filling her as much as desire, but this time a desire for something far more basic than sexual gratification. She just needed to _breathe_. Her lungs were burning, searing, with the need to take just _one_ breath…

  The blackness was encroaching, and just when Nerys thought that she would succumb, Solas withdrew. Frisk mountain air flooded her lungs, and she gasped greedily and deep. Shudders wracked her body, the ability to breathe a privilege she had never appreciated.

  “Would you enjoy my hands, ma sa’lath? My fingers probing your warm depths, filling you, stretching you, ruining you for all other men?”

  Her voice was raspy and hoarse from only recently being able to breathe again, but Nerys still stuttered out an affirmation. At her assent, Solas moved back down her body so that he was once more nestled between her legs. Initially he sat, staring, at the way her pink, swollen flesh glistened in the firelight. Then he laughed.

  “You have made quite a mess, dripping your juices everywhere. I will put them to good use.”

  He started by probing with one finger, just to slick it up. Then he inserted another. A mischievous grin decorated his face, and he reached into the fade to call forth a spell. His fingers, frosty with magic, engulfed by her warmth, caused a high-pitched shriek to bubble out from behind her lips.

  She writhed and bucked, but her bindings held true. His smile widened, and Solas let his magic fizzle away. True to his word, he stretched and probed, gently massaging her inner muscles to relax them. But it was not enough friction, she needed _more!_

  Nerys pleaded with her lover, begging to provide her with what she sought. Solas obliged, but not in the way that she wanted. Instead of increasing the speed of his ministrations, he added another finger, but it was still not enough!

  “More,” Nerys begged again.

  Again he obliged, in his own, esoteric way. He now had four fingers inside her, and it was almost too much. She was tight, clenching around him. Her face contorted in discomfort and she bit down on her lip. She struggled, yes, but not against, to accommodate.

  He let her relax around him, again probing and massaging. Then he slipped the pad of his thumb inside her, and it was almost too much again. She was too full, she couldn’t take it, but as she floundered and flailed, he slipped further and further in. He stopped applying pressure when he met resistance at the widest part of his hand, and stilled.

  “Are you enjoying this? The way that my fist fills you? Stretching you, ruining you for other men? You will be mine, and mine alone.”

  The low growl in which he spoke awakened something visceral within her, and she clambered to accept his fist within her. When Nerys finally accepted him all the way, she threw her head back in a soundless scream. It wasn’t almost too much, it _was_ too much, and she couldn’t take it, couldn’t stand it, the way that it hurt, the way that she broke. She thrashed around, but the way that he was filling her made it worse. 

  The knot of tension in her belly was forgotten completely as all of her nerves from her knees to her navel exploded in pain. Her back arched off the cot, stomach projecting into the air, and then he hit her just right inside, and her pleasure turned into pain. She collapsed back onto the cot boneless, limp, with a low, throaty moan. The sound of her heart pounded in her ears, she saw her hot breath float away in a little cloud above her. 

  She was in a euphoric limbo. Nerys had not emerged victorious, she had not won the glorious release that she had so desperately sought. But she found that she did not care. This state of blissful abandon that she found herself in was far a more poignant pleasure than a mere climax, as heretical as her inner monologue made it sound.

  “Good, vhenan’ara,” came a voice from the distance. It was remote, muted. The words fell on her like a comforting blanket, the warmth seeping into her and lulling her further into her rapturous reverie. “now I shall claim you as my own.”

  She felt a gentle tug at her core, no, her soul, as Solas removed his fist, taking centuries to remove it, centuries that felt like seconds. Maybe it was the other way, Time felt redundant now. She did not measure her life in moments, in months, in years. Instead, she counted each calm breath, each murmur of her heart.

  He had to wipe his hand on the bedspread, so covered with slick it was. But there was no blood, and so no cause for concern besides a slight discomfort for his lover in the morrow. He placed one hand beside her head, and the other guided his organ once more to her heat. She tried to focus her eyes on his as he entered her, but there was something otherworldly, _ethereal_ to his stare, and she found that she could not.

  He moved his free hand to her leg, hooking around the back and lifting it up to rest on his hip. A small, exasperated growl escaped his lips as Solas had to help her lift her other leg. It just felt so heavy, that even that simple motion took more energy than she could expend. Now that she was properly positioned, he began to roll his hips in earnest. 

  Nerys was not the only one about to plummet into the abyss, as he too had been tortured by the protracted game he played. He did not hear Nerys breathlessly whisper “harellan” as a prayer over the sound of flesh slapping against flesh. He did not realise when he started panting “ma’arlath” with every thrust, the snap of his hips a staccato rhythm, as he was stuttering, stumbling to the precipice. 

 He leaned down to her ear to murmur, “I shall spill my seed into you, where it will quicken in your womb. I shall claim you as mine as I give you my heir,” but the fluttering of her inner walls against him broke his focus and his words came tumbling out unintelligibly.

  He settled for a growl before biting the crook of her neck sharply. Nerys clenched tightly around him as she finally plummeted into the depths of rapture, her pyrrhic victory finally won. The knot of tension in her belly expanded until it encompassed her very essence, and then exploded. Her vision disappeared in lieu of scores of shining, shimmering white pinpricks dancing before her eyes. 

  She shivered, and shuddered, and shook with the force of her descent into ecstasy, and she did indeed scream her lover’s name. But as he was too far deep in his own pleasure, he did not realise that it was not Solas, but “Fen’Harel”, that she screamed.


	4. Epilogue

Falon’din guide her soul because she had died and gone to the Fade, or the Void, or wherever it was that people’s spirits went. Or had she died and transcended to a new echelon of being? Not that she was capable of conceptualising her ascension. Nerys wasn’t really capable of any form of cognizant thought past a tumbling stream of expletives and invectives as all capacity for higher thought had been lost in the wake of her release.

  Her lover reluctantly slipped out of her depths, a string of their combined fluids still connecting them. He was careful not to place too much of his weight on her body as he reached up to undo the bindings around her neck and wrists. When the latter were free, Nerys idly massaged them. They longer felt heavy and leaden, they were now afloat on waves of ecstasy.

  “By the Creators,” Nerys murmured. Her lover chuckled lightly, and peppered her jaw with kisses before righting himself and removing himself from the bed. He walked to pick up a washbowl and cloth that had been resting on a table by the fire.

  The sweat on her brow and body cooled in the frigid air, chilling her flesh. The juices between her legs tickled as they dripped. The rhythm of her heart calmed, and her breathing slowed. With each inhalation, she was brought back more into herself.

  The bedframe creaked slightly as Solas deposited himself on the side, washbowl in his lap and wringing the cloth in his hands. He dapped at her sex with it, but Nerys let out a small yelp when the cold cloth first touched her, and Solas fumbled out an apology. When he dipped the cloth back in the bowl, he summoned forth his magic to warm the water slightly.

  Again he dapped at her sex, attentively wiping the mess of their mingled fluids. _His_  seed, mixed with her slick… He hoped that his seed would quicken inside her womb, so that her belly may grow with babe and that the whole world would be able to see the evidence of their fervent coupling. 

  It did, but Nerys would never know, for someone would “accidentally” mix in some birthbane with the elfroot in her healing tea. Solas swallowed past the lump that had formed in his throat and continued with his task.

  He dipped the cloth into the washbowl.

  He wrung it out.

  He cleaned where he had scratched or bitten too hard, breaking her fragile skin.

  He laved at her with the cloth, _loved her_ , with an ardor he had not felt for centuries.

  It had all started with a ladder, and a joke that she would bring down a mountain. She hadn’t yet. But she would.

  He would be there to see it. He would make sure.


End file.
